The Romanov Ransom (A Sam and Remi Fargo Adventure, Band 9) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Clive Cussler is the author or coauthor of more than fifty previous books in five bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt, NUMA Files, Oregon Files, Isaac Bell, and Sam and Remi Fargo. He lives in Arizona.

Robin Burcell spent nearly three decades working in California law enforcement as a police officer, detective, hostage negotiator, and FBI-trained forensic artist. She is the author of ten novels, and co-author with Cussler of the Sam and Remi Fargo novel Pirate. She lives in Lodi, California.

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1

Laguna Mountains

San Diego County, California

To the left!”

“Copy that. Moving to the left. Five . . . four . . .”

The helicopter hovered near the sheer rock face, the tethered basket swinging from the cable, as one of the rescuers radioed, “Don’t come any closer. You’re one-zero from the wall.”

“Copy that.”

Sam Fargo watched as the two search-and-rescue volunteers, a man and woman, both wearing khaki uniforms and yellow helmets, guided the helicopter basket closer to where his wife, Remi, lay on an outcropping of rock, her left leg stabilized with a makeshift splint. The turbulence from the rotors whipped her auburn hair about her face, her green eyes tearing up from all the dirt blowing around. The man glanced up at the hovering helicopter. “We got it!” he radioed.

Sam took note of every move they made, resisting the urge to step in and take over. And even though he knew his wife was in good hands, it was difficult to stand there and do nothing. Within a few minutes, they had her secured in the basket, then stood back as she was lifted from the mountainside. No sooner was she safely on her way than his phone rang. He wanted to ignore it, but when he saw it was Selma Wondrash, the head of his and Remi’s research team, he answered. “Selma.”

“How’s Mrs. Fargo?”

“Doing better than the rest of us. She at least gets to ride out of here. The rest of us have to climb.”

“You can always volunteer to be the victim next time,” she said, then got right to the point. “You recall my cousin’s nephews you and Mrs. Fargo were backing for that documentary they were making on the ratlines?”

Because he and Remi sponsored so many educational and archaeological ventures through the Fargo Foundation, the charitable organization that they had founded, he sometimes lost track of who they were funding. In this case, though, being a World War II history buff, he distinctly recalled the young men and their project, a documentary on the ratline—a system of escape routes used by the Nazis and Fascists who fled Europe after the war. Even so, it took him a moment to bring up their names. “Karl and Brand. I remember. Why?”

“Their uncle hasn’t been able to get in touch with them for a couple of days. He’s worried. Especially after getting an odd message on his voice mail.”

“Any idea what it was?”

“Something about them finding a lost plane in Morocco, and people were after them. He can’t get any help from the authorities, because the boys didn’t register with the consulate, and no one seems to know where they are. I told him that you might be able to pull some strings and get someone to look into it. I know you and Remi have a date tonight, but—”

“Your family’s our family,” he said, grabbing his backpack from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. “Have our plane ready to go. As soon as Remi and I get home, we’ll pack and head to the airport.”

Sam and Remi Fargo were not the usual multimillionaires content to rest on the laurels of good business decisions that had netted them more money than they could spend in several lifetimes. Sam had earned an engineering degree from Caltech, spent seven years at DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, then left to start his own company, where he’d made a fortune developing a number of inventions used by the military and intelligence agencies. Remi, an anthropologist and historian with a focus on ancient trade routes, graduated from Boston College. Her background came in handy during the pursuit of their particular passion, searching for lost treasures around the world. It also helped that she had a near-photographic memory, was proficient in several languages, and was a world-class sharpshooter when it came to firearms. As many scrapes as they’d been in over the years, there was no one Sam would rather have as his partner than Remi.

There was, however, one slight issue about leaving tonight. It happened to be the anniversary of the day they met at the Lighthouse Cafe, a jazz bistro in Hermosa Beach. To them, it was even more important than their wedding anniversary, and they honored it each year by having a date at the very table where they’d spent their first evening talking the night away.

Remi was waiting for Sam at the car when he finally got there after the climb up the cliffside with the volunteers.

“Took you long enough,” she said, looking at her watch. “We’re going to get stuck in commuter traffic if we don’t hit the road soon.”

Sam tossed his climbing gear into the back of their Range Rover. “Any chance you wouldn’t mind a slight change of plans . . . ?” He left the question hanging, noting the disappointment on her face.

“We’ve never missed date night at the Lighthouse.”

“Maybe we could mix it up a bit. A week of date nights somewhere else? Like Morocco?” Before she had a chance to respond, he added, “Selma’s family might be in trouble.”

“I love date night in Morocco.”

2

It was late morning, the bright sun shining on the snow-peaked Atlas Mountains in the distance, when Sam and Remi landed in Marrakesh. They rented a black four-wheel-drive Toyota Prado, then drove out to meet Selma’s cousin Albert Hoffler, who was waiting in front of the hotel as they pulled up.

“He looks like Selma,” Remi said as Sam turned the key fob over to the valet. “At least in the eyes.”

In fact, he was also about the same age as Selma, in his fifties, with brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache flecked with gray. His smile seemed strained—understandable, considering the circumstances. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I can’t thank you enough for flying all the way out here.”

“Please. It’s Sam and Remi. Save the formalities for Selma,” Sam said, shaking his hand.

“Cousin Selma’s been that way her whole life.” His smile was fleeting, and he gave a tired sigh. “We can talk over lunch. I’ve reserved us a table.”

He led them through the hotel’s spacious courtyard lobby, with a fountain and reflecting pool in the center. The restaurant was on the far side, the tables overlooking the pool. When they were seated, he said, “How much has Selma told you?”

Sam replied, “Something about a voice mail you received while the boys were here working on the documentary. And that you haven’t gotten much cooperation from the authorities.”

“It’s not that they’re not cooperating, more that they have nothing to go on. The truth is, they’re not officially missing yet, since they’re not due back for a day or so. But after that voice mail . . .”

“What can you tell us?” Sam asked.

“They landed here after finishing up in Spain, documenting the lines of escape taken by some high-ranking Nazi officers who were fleeing to South America. I believe this is the project you were funding. They were looking for shipping records in Casablanca but got sidetracked after hearing a legend about a Nazi pilot rescued after the war. Apparently, he’d parachuted from the plane before it crashed, wandered the desert for days, and was rambling on about a map.”

Sam noticed Remi perk up at the mention. Maps intrigued her. “What was it of?”...